


Time Never Stops

by Veganloki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Mild Language, Sad, anniversary of a death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veganloki/pseuds/Veganloki
Summary: It's been thirteen years. It's not any easier.





	Time Never Stops

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: deals with feelings of grief  
Get ready for sad boi hour  
New to posting so sorry if I missed something

The clock wouldn’t stop ticking.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. 

Time kept moving, no matter how hard he glared, though he futilely stared in the hopes that it would. 

One last look. 11:58pm

Two more minutes and it would be thirteen years. Thirteen years without their smiles. Thirteen years without their laughs. Thirteen years of turning to the left to share a joke, a strife, or an idea for a prank, only to find no one there. 

Turning to share a personal story. Stories that used to include them. 

As the clock struck twelve, he stood from where he’d been stooped at the kitchen table and went to lean against the counter. He had no purpose, no reason for his actions, but it was better to stand there with a blank mind, than to have to think about what was missing. 

They should be here.

And fuck whoever said time heals all wounds, because the only thing time has done is replace the raw wound with an aching numbness. Numbness that consumes him, turning any conversation into a struggle for attention. A struggle to stay in the moment. 

He missed them.

And every year, on this day, all that numbness is ripped away, and he is left with the raw pain he had felt in those first few moments after hearing the news. Yet, it’s been thirteen years, and time didn’t stop when they left. 

Time kept ticking when they took their last breath. Time kept ticking when they were lowered into the ground. Time kept ticking when their son, his last connection to them, was sent away, not to be seen for eleven years. This night was no different. It has been thirteen years and, as that damn clock insisted on reminding him, time never stopped ticking.  
They may be resting in peace, but they had left him in pieces. 

Downing the remains of his firewhiskey, he left the glass on the counter and slowly took the trek up the stairs to go sit on his bed and keep staring at nothing. He wanted a distraction, but guilt kept his mind firmly on their loss. People would say that they would have wanted him to move on, but moving on feels like a betrayal when the best parts of who he is today is because of them.

As he lied in bed, he tried desperately to find sleep. Maybe if he could sleep through the day he wouldn’t have to deal with the raw wound of grief and could go back to the numbness that could only feel good in comparison. He started counting to one hundred, but his thoughts kept getting interrupted. 

One, two, three, four, he missed them, five, six, seven, they are gone forever, eight, nine, this wasn’t working. 

He wished he was with them, but he was too perseverant (cowardly) to take a shorter route to meet them. He had to think of Harry, who would also be mourning today. Harry, who he had failed at protecting. Harry, who he couldn’t raise with the memories of his parents and couldn’t protect now because of his fugitive status. 

Would they be disappointed in him? Could he have done better and not chased after Peter? Would they think that he needs to be doing more now to help Harry out? Does he still need their approval even though they are not here? 

Yes. 

The four glasses of firewhiskey he had drank earlier started to affect him as he became drowsy. As he started to drift off, his last thought was of how he would surely wake in a few hours and for a few blessed moments he wouldn’t remember what day it was. He would forget that he is mostly alone in life, with few people who truly care about him, and not just for some agenda. Then reality would come pressing back down on him and the cycle of grief would start all over again. 

As he closed his eyes, his last view was of a half-finished letter, full of empty platitudes, that he would send out tomorrow to try to stave off some of the pain of the person that is his last connection to them.


End file.
